Shoes clack on the sterile linoleum of the hospital floors. Click, click, all the way to the reception desk.

“I’m here for my daughter, Stella DeLuca.” Voice like gravel, gaze hard. Worried. “She was hit by a car?”

The receptionist quickly flits through the files, nodding. “Yes, I have an Estella DeLuca here on record. Are you her father?”

The man nods curtly. “Yes.”

“She’s in Room 17, trauma ward, fifth floor. Elevators are down that hall and to the left,” the receptionist says, leaning over the desk to point in that direction.

“Thanks.” He starts down the corridor, hands stowed in the pockets of his slacks. So they don’t shake like he knows they will if they’re free. So he can sweat a little less about the condition of his daughter.

Sweet little Stella. Nine, and bright just like her name. He fumbles for his phone in his back pocket, fingers flying over the digital keyboard, letters forming a text to you, his ex-spouse.

On my way up. Is she awake?

He sends it with trembling hands, letting out a breath as he steps into the elevator.

You had texted him an hour ago with the news, and he had raced across town to get to the hospital. It was the biggest in the city, the only one with a trauma level high enough to support his daughter’s condition.

And right now, that condition was critical.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, his brain rambles endlessly, thoughts racing. My baby.

The elevator dings, and he nearly stumbles when his feet seem to move faster than his mind can tell them to.

Room 14… Room 15… Room 16…

“Room 17,” he sighs, knocking quickly before pushing the door open.

His heart drops when he sees you, eyes red-rimmed from crying, arms around both of your older children. He almost tears up at the sight of Stella in that bed, but he thinks you might need him more.